Editor's Note: Author Lael Wilcox is an ultra-distance cyclist who, in tackling challenges few can comprehend, has crushed longstanding solo distance records and won races like the Tour Divide and Trans Am. Starting June 24, Wilcox will be riding all of Alaska’s major roads—in total, 4,000 miles.
Here, she talks about why she rides like this in the first place:
For the past few years, I’ve been riding long distances—really, really long distances.
I can’t help it: I am insatiably curious, and I crave miles. When I look at a map, which I do often, I get inspired; I want to see everything it contains firsthand. And not only do I want to see it, but I also want to propel myself through that landscape. I want to be there. I want to trace my wheels over the topo lines.
While many big adventures are fun when undertaken with a friend, my personality is suited to going it alone: I can be fiercely independent. I am not always patient. I am not willing to wait for a partner to ride with. In fact, sometimes I don't want a partner. I love people and I love parties and I have a huge well of energy and if I stay in one place for too long I get anxious. Plus, the days are unpredictable: The bicycle is the constant, but everything else changes.
Setting out on a long solo ride is a release. I want to be alone with my thoughts, moving through the world to get somewhere real—and on long solo rides, I have miles and miles to sort out my thoughts and to be present in so many new places.
Extremely long rides sound impossible—even to me sometimes— but I love the challenge. I love to push myself physically and mentally. And when I am alone, I am only responsible for myself. I make all of the decisions. I have to trust and rely on myself. And I get to see what is possible. (Meet your wildest cycling goals with help from Maximum Overload, a game-changing new interval- and strength-training program from Bicycling!)
But doing really long rides by myself—especially as a woman—puts me in the minority of riders, and it doesn’t come without hardship, or danger. But what I’ve learned about myself and others as a result of taking these journeys makes them more than worthwhile.
The scariest road I've ever ridden was “The Highway of Tears.” I unwittingly connected to the Yellowhead Highway from the Cassiar Highway on my way down to the start of the Tour Divide in 2015. The Highway of Tears is a stretch of the Yellowhead Highway in British Columbia from Prince Rupert to Prince George. Nineteen women have been kidnapped and murdered on this stretch of road since 1969. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
In the first few miles I started seeing billboards of girls gone missing. It was eery. I stopped at a gas station outside of a Native American reservation and an old woman asked me,
“Do you know that you're riding the Highway of Tears?”
“No. Is that a good thing?”
“No.” She looked away.
She looked so sad. And I was alone.
I started getting paranoid: The girls in the signs looked like me.
If it's not the serial killers than it's the bears. If it's not the bears than it's the weather. There are just too many fears to keep track of.
A creepy man outside of a grocery store asked me where I was going and if I was alone. I was too afraid to give him a straight answer. I lied and told him I was meeting up with friends.
The first two nights, I hid in the bushes to camp. On the third, I was hell-bent on getting past Prince George and clear of the Highway of Tears. It started pouring rain. Then came the thunder and lightening. The roads were flooding. I gripped my handlebars tighter. I was determined to keep riding. It was dark. A semi truck splashed waves of water over me. I was soaked. This was starting to get really dangerous. The cars couldn't see me and I couldn't see them.
I saw a trailer park with an open sign and I pulled over. I leaned my bike out front and walked into the cafe. A woman stood at the counter. I'll never forget how her jaw dropped.
“Where did you come from?”
“I'm riding my bike from Anchorage to Banff.”
“You're all wet.”
She went into the back and returned with a towel. In the meantime, I went over to the sink. My hands were so cold that I couldn't move my fingers enough to turn on the faucet. I deferred and poured myself a cup of coffee instead, wrapping my hands around the styrofoam cup.
I was rigid and determined.
“I'm just going to warm up for a few minutes and then I'm getting back on the road.”
Never do these five things before a ride:
I took a seat at a table across from a man in a reflective workman's jacket. He was working on a hotdog and a cup of soup. He started asking me all kinds of questions. And that's when I noticed he was missing all of his front teeth.
The woman came back with a towel and four quarters.
“Hon, you should really dry your clothes.”
She handed me the quarters and told me that the laundry was out back. Toothless John offered to show me the way.
John guided me to the laundry room. It had washers and dryers and a shower. He asked me if I'd like a beer and said he'd be back in a few minutes so that I could shower and warm up. I put my soaked clothes in the dryer, took a shower and put on my rain jacket and pants.
John came back with a couple of Keystone Ices. We got to talking—about my ride, about the trailer park, and John was nothing but kind. The weather was looking really dreary, and it was supposed to storm all night. John told me that he was housesitting for a friend, and that I could spend the night in his trailer. I'd have the whole place to myself and he'd come back in the morning to take me to breakfast. Another woman in the trailer park came in to wash a load of laundry. She was friendly with John.
“He may look pretty rough, but he's totally tame," she said. "We all know that you're here and we're all looking out for you.”
The trailer park had taken me in. I accepted John's offer, but not before showing him my SPOT satellite phone and telling him I was sending a message of my exact location to my parents and my husband; I was still paranoid.
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John showed me to his trailer and showed me how to work the DVD player. He had a whole case of burnt DVDs. He offered me his final Keystone Ice and told me to help myself to his microwave meals in the freezer. Then, John left.
The rain continued to pour. I tucked myself into the couch and turned on a football movie called The Express. On second thought, I pushed my bike up against the trailer door to block the entrance and got my SPOT and my mosquito repellent for security. If anyone came in, I'd hear them push the bike over. Then, I'd hit the emergency button on the SPOT and I could mace them with the 90-percent DEET mosquito repellent. I'd accidentally sprayed it in my own eyes once, and it hurt like hell.
I drank the last beer, made myself a cheese sandwich, and dozed off.
The bike never moved.
I woke up early to sunshine, packed up my bike, and went to the cafe for coffee. The place was filled with men eating their weekend bacon. One of them paid for my cup of coffee.
Soon enough, John arrived. We sat and visited. Other locals pivoted their chairs to join the conversation and it turned quickly to the Highway of Tears.
“Do you know that you're on the Highway of Tears.”
“Yes.”
“There are some sick people out there. Don't trust them. One year, two girls went missing and they found them gutted in a field.”
I am starting to think that seeing a woman riding alone can ignite a sense of fear in others.
I kept drinking my coffee. The sun was shining; there was nothing to be afraid of.
People are human. They are drawn to terror. It's like trying to avoid opening a scab that just has to be picked.
I thanked John for letting me stay in his trailer. He smiled back with gums. Then, I left.
Of all of the places in the world, I was taken in on the Highway of Tears by a Keystone Ice-drinking, toothless man. People are good, and they care.
I pedaled the next 40 miles to and through Prince George, barely stopping to buy a small bottle of rum. On the outskirts of town, I took a swig to celebrate surviving The Highway of Tears. Twenty miles farther, I stopped at a ski lodge to buy some hot food.
The lodge was owned by a German woman. Out of ski season, it was nearly empty, hosting only the woman, her daughter, and a middle-aged man. While I was waiting for the food, the sky opened up and it started to pour.
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As the rain let up, I packed my bike with two bacon cheeseburgers and some pastries. The man came out on the porch. He asked me about my trip. Then he said,
“You shouldn't go out there. There are a lot of bears out there and you won't see anything except a couple houses for the next hundred miles.”
I told him that I've already seen about a hundred bears and I'm just hoping that the rain will let up.
He scoffed, “Good luck. It probably won't.”
I rolled out. The sky cleared. Then I pulled over and took another slug of rum and continue on my way.
If it's not the serial killers than it's the bears. If it's not the bears than it's the weather. There are just too many fears to keep track of.
It’s easier to stop fearing them.
I am starting to think that seeing a woman riding alone can ignite a sense of fear in others. When they are telling me I can't do something, they're actually projecting their own fears onto me. If they feel that they can't do something, then surely I can't do it either—because I'm a woman and I'm small and I'm alone.
But I honestly don't feel this fear. I see a map with a road or a trail through a country and I'm curious and I'm driven and I'm not afraid. And I'm going to ride there.
